28. Queenie
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘SLOW LOVE’ BY TENDER
“Can you just—” I turn around and try and check the back of my dress Mischa’s fixing. “Hurry up?” I plead with her.
She shoots me an impatient look. “I am going as fast as I can. This is Mom’s dress, you know? She’s like four inches taller than you. Hemming this takes time. You will.” She snaps off the thread off her needle. “Give me time.”
I subside, although I check out the time on the wall clock.
The party’s about to start any minute now. And I’m still getting dressed.
I fluff out my hair, which insists on sticking to the back of my neck. And direct the tiny fan to my nape, to settle it. I took a two-hour shower – with triple deep conditioner and a blow-dry – so it’s tamed and still kind of wild. Giving me ‘beach goddess attends beach party’ vibes.
I’m a comfy clothes kind of girl, always have been. Between studying endless hours and getting straight As so I could get into med school as soon as was humanly possible, fashion’s never been a priority for me, like it is for Jo. But, tonight…
I bite my lip. I really want to make a splash tonight.
Noah deserves it. My fake-real boyfriend deserves it.
My phone pings with an incoming text message. It’s him.
Where are you, woman? The party’s about to begin. And my date’s missing.
I consider rolling my eyes, but he isn’t there to witness my indignation. So, I just send him a text telling him I’ll be there in five minutes. A lie, of course, but hey, I never claimed to be perfect. And tonight, I really do need the time.
Hair, makeup, outfit, accessorizing…fashion takes time.
“Did you see the way the freaking ball just sailed over the fielders’ hand and hit the boundary line?” I gush dreamily. Replaying it in my head with perfect recall.
“I did. I almost went deaf with your screams,” Mischa replies dryly.
I grin cheekily at her. “You were screaming yourself, Meesh.”
She cracks a smile. “Well, he is very good. Your Noah.”
My pulse thuds slowly once and then picks up speed at her words. I want to refute them. Casually. Immediately. The arguments are already there. Logical. Irrefutable.
He isn’t mine. We’re just faking it for the summer. He is a soon-to-be famous cricketer and I’m a waitress. This is not real, and he isn’t mine.
But he sleeps in my bed every night. Dark eyes hungry but always, always respectful. His lips so sinful I dream about them even when he is only hidden by a damn wall of pillows. His voice is enough to trigger a cavalcade of heat in me, from the tips of my toes to the base of my spine.
“He…” I swallow. “He lifted his bat for me. You saw that, right?”
Mischa tugs at the back of the dress one last time and then stands up. “I did.” She puts her chin on my shoulder. We look at me in the mirror. Mischa’s little sister will do my makeup as soon as Mischa’s done with the dress.
“What do you think it means?” I ask softly.
Although, I’ve seen Virat do it, and Dhoni too. And everyone else, when they score important runs. Or win a match. Lift their bat and show it to their family…their wives and girlfriends. It’s a shoutout, a claim. As much as a benediction.
I had to physically put my hand to my chest, because it wanted to fly out and follow Noah to the pitch when he hit the century. His innings wasn’t just romantic or dramatic. It was an execution of precise talent. And something more – a sign of greatness. An indicator of how far Noah will go, one day.
“I don’t know,” Mischa says slowly. “Should it mean something?”
“Virat showed his bat to Anushka, during the Ashes Cup last year,” I murmur.
“Then, it’s a cricketer’s instinct thing.” She cinches my waist with the belt we’d scrounged from her mother’s collection yesterday. “Like, hey, look! I did it.” She grins. “At least, he didn’t start screaming like that idiot Van Joost, when he took those wickets.”
I try to hide my instinctive disappointment at hearing Mischa’s practical reason. It was just instinct. It didn’t mean anything more. It’s not like he is Virat and I’m a famous Bollywood actress, right?
I shake my head.
“Does he…” Mischa brushes lint off my shoulder and steps back. “Does he make you happy, Queenie?”
“Why? Do I look unhappy to you?”
“It’s not that.” She shakes her head. “I’ve known you my whole life and this is the first time, I’ve ever seen you make an effort for another person. A man. Even with the other boys you dated, you just…you know…you were you. You weren’t trying to impress them.”
My lips part for a confused breath. “You think I’m trying to impress Noah?”
She sighs. “All I’m saying is…it’s easy to see why you would want to. God knows, the man is dreamy. And he is decent. Not, like surface-level, open doors for you decent, but actually, inside where it counts. So yeah. It makes sense if it’s what you’re doing? I just wondered if you knew you were?” She ends with a lame shrug.
“Mischa, I…” I try and put into words, why I am making all this effort for him. Because this is effort . Not to impress him. But to show him… “His family’s not here. So, I just want him to know I’m proud of him. You know?”
She nods.
“He was so upset when I mangled his jersey with the tricolor. But he’s been such a good sport about it ever since.” I wave a hand at my dress. “This is just my way of proving to him he matters too. That’s not wrong, is it?”
Mischa shakes her head. Tucks her hair back under the practical bun it is in. “Of course, not.” She gives me a tiny approving nod. “I really am glad, though. You’re embracing color after the year of the goth!”
“It’s still black.” I run a hand over my hip. “I just make it look good.”
We both burst out into giggles and I forget about the tiny catch in my chest where Mischa’s question ricocheted.
Why am I making so much effort for him?
The answer surprises me. It’s because I like him. I like him enough to make this effort for him. I like him.
Then, Mischa’s little sister sticks her head in, and I stop thinking.
Because one L-word is not the same as the other. And I don’t want to think about L-words anymore. I resolutely push all thoughts away. And beam expectantly at her.
“This is all yours.” I circle my face. “Do your worst!” I can be dramatic too, when I want to be.
She rolls her eyes. and I giggle again. My phone pings again but she grabs my chin and tilts it this way and that. “I can work with this,” she declares. And just like that, I’m just a girl getting ready for a party with her date.
Noah
“Congratulations, man. You were fantastic with reading the outfield.” Teddy Durham, the Knights’ wicket keeper shakes my hand, hard. He’s the fifth person in as many minutes to do so at the coaches’ Fourth of July party.
I give him a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Thanks, man. It was just a good day, you know.”
News of my record spread all over the camp and I’m still getting bombarded with congratulatory messages and good wishes. Queenie smothered me in kisses the second she locked the door to our room night before last to congratulate me.
I got so worked up I went back to sleep on the stupid mattress and away from temptation. She threw a pillow at my departing back.
I grin wider at the memory. Maybe I’m growing on my Hellcat too.
“Well, it was awesome to see. And I truly mean it.” Teddy smiles back widely and then nods at me in respect before sliding into the seat next to me.
We’re at the beach. It’s a private property, right on the water, owned by Coach Devgan, apparently. The sky’s a stunning blue with tinges of the setting orange-pink sun. The water’s a cerulean blue and the guests… are mostly sloshed.
“That means heaps.” I toy with the water glass and jiggle my knee. Queenie’s late by like forty minutes. I should have waited back with her. “Too bad I still couldn’t win the match for my mates.”
“That’s cricket for you.” Teddy clinks glasses with me. He’s easy and affable. A preppy, generic blond. I totally understand why Queenie’s blond nemesis went for him.
I give him a non-committal smile because it’s not my place to ask about his girlfriend or why she’s a spiteful mean witch.
Teddy moves to the next table with another easy, affable, ‘See you on the field man’.
I watch couples jive on the makeshift sandy floor. Ares is goofing with a woman who looks like a supermodel. Totally his type. Fox is nowhere to be seen. It’s typical of my best mate. He’s not the kind to make political appearances if he can get his hands and other body parts on a willing partner.
Besides, he’d once confided to me one wasted weekend he was sick of parties. He’d attended too many of them as a child because of his family’s lineage and image.
I spent a lot of time with my mother and my dad was a workaholic, so my childhood did not have this particular issue.
“Whiskey, sir?” One of the staff asks me casually. Holding a tray up full of brown and white drinks.